


Drip

by a_world_of_lonely_people



Category: Original Work
Genre: Poetry, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28709367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_world_of_lonely_people/pseuds/a_world_of_lonely_people
Summary: Weird little poetry piece I wrote a while ago.





	Drip

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.

A nose that sees and double bees. I can hear a drip under my bed. There are spiders in my head. Are they spinning webs or pulling thread? Can spiders pull thread? Maybe in my head. My brain spills out my ears. What’s a couple more beers? The German like beers. They make things that the Jewish man fears, like the holocaust. A thing with far from a hollow cost. Why’d they name it that? Maybe they got hit in the head with a bat? Or a bat? Or a bat with a bat or a bat with bats? Maybe all four. Maybe more. Certainly, enough to still be sore. Bats are like a sip. Just a little bit bat who sat with a hat. The hats drip. Why do they drip? Snow knows, but who knows snow? Does snow know snow? No, you say snow? Does no know snow? Do you know no snow? Do you know him? Do you know them? Do you know the phlegm? The rotten phlegm, that drips like bats with hats that sip drips that drip bats with them of the phlegm? The phlegm that takes bones and does away with them? The phlegm that finds your empty dreams, and makes the coziest home of them? What are dreams? Do they have seams? Seems like spiders pull at the seams, unraveling thread in my head to spin their own little web of bats, all with nice hats that only no knows, hats that drip sips of snow. Maybe all this is under my bed. Maybe it's all in my head? Maybe it's in your head. A dreamy drip full of spiders and hats and snow and bats, all webbed in things that no snow knows. Just a little drip, bulging at the seams, like all the sad, forgotten dreams. Maybe you will sip it all up and keep it in your head. Maybe you’ll leave it there under your bed, protected by double bees and a nose that sees.


End file.
